The Nanny - 1. The Nanny

The aircar stopped in front of a tall building reminiscent of an ancient Terran church spire. The inside, like the outside, was austere and polished to a high shine. Even the inhuman workers seemed more robot than man, with their silvery skin and eyes.

The timid footsteps of the two young boys echoed in the immense greeting hall. Built to intimidate even visiting dignitaries, the high ceiling reflected back the checkered decor until all sense of direction fled. The Znaida Modification Center had never successfully been robbed.

With a carefully manufactured bland expression that was still heavily disapproving, Adjunct Supervisor Looffa approached the two boys. "Young masters," he said, bowing gracefully. "Of how may I be of assistance?"

The boys looked at each other, the younger one huddling fearfully against his brother. The older boy swallowed and pulled his brother tightly against his side, but his voice was clear: "We want to place a commission." He'd practiced those words the entire way there.

Another bow. "This way, young masters." For any other client, Looffa would have conducted a tour of the facilities, explaining each detail of the construction process while analyzing the personality of the client and what would be needed in the construct to establish the perfect match. That was his job, and Looffa was exceedingly confident at his job.

The two boys, pre-adolescents, were another story. Looffa recognized them immediately as Sia and Ram Nash, sons of the current Prime Minister. The Prime Minister was behind a series of bills and amendments to the planetary constitution that had his supporters and Znaida Corporation waging a highly volatile, political war.

Looffa wanted to find out what the boys wanted before he started advertising their presence. The boys represented an amazing opportunity.

"We have many models," he began once he closed the door of his office behind them. Just for caution's sake, he locked the door.

The older boy sat down primly on a chair in front of Looffa's desk, for all the world appearing confident, as if he sat down with powerful men every day.

"We want this," he said, pulling a rectangular item from his coat pocket and offering the holo picture to Looffa.

"Sia!" hissed the younger boy, tugging on his brother's arm. They shared a look in which Sia shushed his brother.

"He must look like that," he told Looffa, tapping on the holo. "We have some other specifications, too." He glanced at his brother, who nodded.

"Ah, very well." Looffa swallowed his shock and recognition. The man whose holo picture he held was a very famous space pirate. His death had made Nash the man he was today.

He scanned the holo into a data recorder and held his pen poised over the surface, where several boxes and options appeared. He began making marks and selecting options even before the boys began talking.

"He's got to cook and clean," said Sia. He squeezed his brother's hand. "We can look after ourselves, but there's no one to take care of Papa." He frowned as only a young child can when discussing the flaws of his parent. "He won't."

"He has to like glee-ball, and be able to drive, and to cook all of Papa's favorite foods." They didn't know what those were, but if it was important to them, then they reasoned it must also be important to their dad.

Looffa nodded, and his pen made several more selections before he looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Is that all?"

"Papa doesn't talk much," said Sia uncertainly.

"Shall I program your construct to perform the functions of a nanny?"

The frown again, this one reserved for bothersome adults. "He has to take care of Papa. He has to love Papa."

Looffa nodded in all seriousness. "Very well. Any other requests?"

"Names," squeaked the younger boy.

"Yeah." Sia nodded. "Papa has to go to all these parties. He always complains that he can never remember anyone's name. Mama always did that. She likes parties."

"Very well, and what qualities does your father enjoy in a person?"

The boys looked at each other and then turned blank faces on him. Looffa repressed a sigh.

He tapped the holo. "If you were to describe this man's personality, what would he be like?"

"Oh!" they chorused.

"He's funny," said Sia. "He makes Papa laugh."

"And kind!" said the younger one.

"He was an adventurer!" cried the older boy, making chopping motions with his arm as if he held a sword. "Fighting off evil pirates and Papa says he had an awful temper, how once --"

Looffa's eyebrows were almost into his hairline at the description that was at odds with everything he'd ever read about the infamous space pirate Iwain Roswin.

"Anything else?" he interrupted.

"I want a rock-cat," said the little one determinedly, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding.

"Papa doesn't like them," explained Sia.

For good reason, thought Looffa, but aloud he said, "I understand perfectly." He looked at their bright, hopeful expressions and smiled. "I think this is completely do-able."

"Hooray!"

He handed Sia the holo picture. "You can have this back." He offered his hand for each of the boys to shake solemnly. "Znaida Corporation thanks you most kindly for your business, young sirs," he said, watching their chests puff out in pride.

He stood and gestured to the door. "Allow me to escort you out."

Clasping hands, the boys followed him obediently and Looffa assured them that Znaida would deliver their new nanny within three standard months.

"We'll take care of Papa until then," Sia promised. He looked at his brother and they nodded, giving each other a handshake to seal the deal. Then they gave Looffa identical bows and left the building.

Looffa watched them until traffic obscured the tiny humans from sight. Then he went in search of the security footage. No one must ever know the sons of the Prime Minister visited the Center.

Three months later ...

Poe Nash sat back in his chair for a minute. He steepled his fingers under his chin, closed his eyes, and shoved his temper back where it belonged.

"Sir?"

He sighed and leaned forward to acknowledge his executive assistant. "Yes, Brady, I heard you. Please re-schedule this evening's appointments and let Lieutenant Kelli know I'm on my way."

"Yes, sir."

Rising from his chair, Nash stood at the window for a long moment looking out on the city below. They were a relatively new colony, established less than a century previously and almost eligible for entrance into the Galactic Alliance. Nash supported the bid for membership and had strived to prepare the planet to meet the strict entry requirements in order to have a successful bid.

There was a large contingent opposed to the changes in the laws, but as they were in the minority, Nash did his best to ignore their prophesies of doom. With membership in the Alliance came certain protections and benefits that he believed far outweighed the disadvantages.

The hardest law to overturn was in regards to their greatest, most lucrative exports: cloning, a technology illegal within the Alliance. Enforcing that law was a daunting prospect, and the constitutional amendment had yet to be approved. This was a very delicate time, and yet Nash kept finding himself distracted.

He had two children from a marriage which had collapsed during the first half of his tenure. They were inquisitive, active boys, and Nash loved them very much, but he couldn't seem to maintain employment of a nanny to mind them. Almost every day he had his temporary help call and quit, or had to pick up the boys from some new escapade. They were just children; he couldn't understand what was so difficult in making sure the boys completed their school time and monitored their outside activities. Neither his wife nor himself had ever had the kinds of problems reported by the nannies.

The first few times he wrote it off as a fluke. The child psychologist he consulted told him the children just needed his attention, and his ex-wife informed him rather curtly that it was his problem and he needed to figure it out himself.

"Serves you right!" she'd said. "Now you'll appreciate me."

He'd tried to argue that he had always been very appreciative of everything she'd done, including giving him such beautiful, enjoyable children, but she hadn't listened, just cut off the call. She'd always done that, he'd realized then, only willing to listen as long as he agreed with everything she said.

Nash sighed. Despite Mari's quick temper, her rigid routines for doing things, her insistence on clutter and chaos, he still loved her very much. He couldn't deny that his life was less stressful without her, less guilt-ridden, but he still ached every night he returned home and she wasn't there.

And speaking of not being there, Nash needed to go pick up his children. Once again they'd escaped their nanny and run wild around town. They had once again been picked up by the police for some foolish stunt. Once again, Nash had to go collect them and somehow attempt to impress upon them the necessity of acting like the young gentlemen they were and not the hooligans they pretended to be.

"This is a peaceful world," he lectured on the way home, "but we are also undergoing many changes, changes that make people not very happy with me."

"With you, Papa?"

Neither boy could conceive of anyone not adoring their father as much as they did. They turned their innocent eyes on him, the look making Nash both terribly embarrassed and awestruck by the boys' unconditional love.

"Er, yes," he replied, blushing, and once again found himself tongue-tied. Foreign dignitaries and seething politicians he could handle without breaking a sweat, and yet two tiny children could reduce him to stammering incoherence. What did you do with children? He understood the mechanics; his family was the prime reason he worked so hard, because he wanted a better life for them to grow up in, but, what did one talk to a child about?

Nash had family, but he avoided the ones with children. They only wanted to talk about their kids, which always made him feel awkward, as if the children were some trophy to be trotted out as some kind of achievement award. The way they talked to their kids also put Nash's teeth on edge. The cooing and 'baby talk' made him feel sorry for them.

To be honest, he didn't know how to talk to his siblings, either, as they traveled in very different circles. None of them had ever been out of the city, let alone off-planet. They simply had no hobbies or experiences in common. His father only wanted to talk politics and to tell Nash why all his decisions were the wrong ones. Only when Nash was feeling particularly masochistic did he speak to his mother.

Nash didn't want to be his parents, and to a large degree felt he had succeeded, but being around his children made him nervous. He understood part of it: they looked like their mother, which kept the wound left by her leaving open and aching. On the other hand, he loved them and wanted to spend time with them, but he felt so helpless, like he couldn't do anything right.

The planet was at such a fragile place, politically, that working long hours was an easy excuse to avoid going home.

He turned the boys over to his housekeeper, Kayte, who informed him that the nanny had quit. She'd lasted three days.

"I just don't understand it," he confessed, smiling gratefully as he accepted a glass of wine. The boys sat under the dining table, pretending they were space marines, the table their ship.

"Incoming!" hollered Sia, startling one of the maids. "Ram! Man the guns! We're going in!" The whole day's adventures seemed forgotten.

"Aye, aye, Captain!" the younger boy cried out in response with a jaunty salute.

The housekeeper watched her boss sneak away and kept her opinions to herself.

After a dinner during which the boys dueled with their celery and carrot sticks, and Nash tried to read through some of his backlog of reports, Nash returned to his study. He downloaded his current work from the hand-held to the house computer and started reviewing those items flagged for closer attention.

As usual, he worked late and rose early, and stood by the kitchen table munching toast while he read the newspaper. The sound of the door chimes disturbed his thoughts and Nash was relieved that the new nanny had arrived so promptly so that he could go to work. Leaving the kitchen, he went to retrieve his things when a chorus of "He's here! He's here! He's here!" caused him to pause outside his study. Curious, he peered into the living room.

A man in about his middle twenties stood laughing while Ram clung to his back and Sia hung from an arm. Both boys were shouting excitedly, and the staff just stood slack-jawed to one side.

Nash didn't notice all that. His eyes were riveted on the man's face. Like he'd just stepped out of a dream or holo projection, he wore form-fitting, gray slacks and a back shirt vaguely militaristic in cut and style. His tawny hair hung braided at his back, his dark-golden eyes twinkling as he laughed. He had strong, powerful legs and arms, and wide shoulders, compact like the feline DNA in his ancestry. He was actually fairly small in stature, but that was an asset for a man who had lived the majority of his life in space. His face was narrow and prone to looking waspish, but the smile transformed him completely.

Iwain.

His brain told him otherwise, but Nash's eyes, heart, and loins told him he knew this man.

He stood easily on his toes, barefoot. Iwain's feet were double-jointed, enabling him to run very fast and leap barriers that would have confounded most other races. Most people assumed that since Iwain was small that he was also weak, a miscalculation that he enjoyed exploiting. His hands were small, the fingers stumpy. Nash recalled that Iwain had had all his firearms specially made for his hands.

He stood there in shock and mounting anger, breaking free with a shout. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, striding into the living room. His boys, sensing their father's wrath, scuttled to the side looking worried.

The vuelian bowed serenely. "Greetings, Prime Minister. I am Moda, the new nanny you requested." He held out his ID.

The chip scanned as valid. Nash stared at his data pad a moment longer in confusion. He returned the ID with an apologetic nod. "Forgive me, ah, Moda. Your appearance startled me."

He inclined his head in a gracious nod. "I understand, sir." One couldn't look like one of the most infamous criminals in history without drawing attention.

Nash tilted his head quizzically. "What are your qualifications?" The file was surprisingly blank. To Nash's astonishment, Moda blushed. Iwain, embarrassed? Never! Bold as a Remenian pit-fighter, that one.

"I confess I have no experience, Prime Minister. I only applied to the agency yesterday eve." His hands came away from his sides as he shrugged. "There was simply no one else to send. I fear I have disappointed you," he continued when Nash continued to stare at him in stunned silence. "I will go."

"Noooo!" cried Sia and Ram, running forward to dangle on the vuelian again. "Papa, no!"

Do you know anything about children?"

"I have been trained in the appropriate techniques and procedures," Moda replied.

"Well ...."

"Please, Papa, please?" begged Sia, running forward to take his father's hand. "Can't we keep him? Please?"

He looked up from his son's pleading face to Moda's amused one. "If there's really no one else," he sighed. "I suppose a trial won't hurt."

The boys erupted in cheers and yells, running around the two men in their excitement.

"But you must behave!"

"Yes, Papa!"

"Yes, Papa!"

The days passed swiftly for Nash leading up to the big vote. He spent the first day with the new nanny tense and on edge waiting for the phone call that his boys were out running wild again or a terse message from his housekeeper letting him know that the vuelian had quit; but he heard nothing. When he got home, having left early for the day, he found the boys snuggled together on the couch, fast asleep. He found Moda in the kitchen with the housekeeper up to his eyeballs in flour and cookie dough. They made a pleasant sight, laughing and talking, and Nash felt immensely stupid rushing home for no reason.

His old friend Iwain had been a taciturn fellow, keeping much to himself, smiling and laughing seldom. Nothing was ever out of place. Moda, however, smiled all the time. He liked to laugh, too, and thought nothing of peanut butter slicking his hair or turning the couch into a fort. He also told outrageous stories that had Nash returning home in time for dinner more days than not.

In a lot of ways, Moda was like a kid himself. He engaged the boys in pillow and food fights, wrestling and puzzle games, and he led them in 'adventures' around the city, incorporating their school lessons in the places they visited. Sia and Ram's school progress reports were a list of satisfactories and outstandings now, rather than the unsatsifactories and incompletes Nash was used to seeing.

In short, he started wondering how they'd ever done without Moda in their lives.

Nash couldn't remember exactly how it happened; he only remembered looking back on past days and wondering how he came to be telling his sons bedtime stories every night. He had done so in the past, before their mother left, but not as regularly as he now was. He trailed off one night as the boys fell asleep and just stared at them for a moment. He didn't hear anything, but he felt something and turned around. Moda leaned against the doorjamb, watching quietly with a small smile.

"You love them very much," he observed when they left the bedroom.

Nash nodded, enjoying the peace and wonder at having spent so much good, productive, non-embarrassing time with his sons.

"And they love you," Moda continued. "You are a very lucky man, Mr. Nash, but I do have one question."

"Just one?" Nash responded lightly. Moda asked just as many questions as the boys did.

The touch on his arm made Nash's skin prickle and he paused in the hallway, turning towards the vuelian in inquiry. He found the man much closer than expected, and the expression in Moda's eyes made Nash swallow reflexively, stepping backwards to bump into the wall.

Moda took advantage of the uncertain mood between them to close the gap. He rested his palm against the Prime Minister's cheek to pull his face down gently. They met in a soft, brief kiss and then the contact was gone.

"Do you require anything further this evening, sir?" asked Moda, again a professional distance away.

"Uh." Nash blinked dumbly for a minute. "No?"

Bowing, Moda took his leave, walking the opposite direction from Nash and towards the small suite of rooms that were his. His smile was half-smirk and half-regretful. It didn't help that Nash still stood in the hallway, fingers poised halfway to his lips, but Moda's seduction was a slow progression of innuendo, catch and release. He'd felt Nash's eyes on him time and again, the looks heated and intense, but in his eyes Moda was staff, therefore family and off-limits.

He hadn't expected that, given what he'd been told about the Prime Minister. They told him that Nash was cold and distant, and calculated every move with logic. Moda didn't believe that at all, hadn't believed it from the first day he met the man. He was quiet, that was true, but no man in Moda's opinion could be called cold and unyielding when one look from his children turned him into mush.

So it was with trepidation that Moda took a seat in the living room. The computer came on, seemingly flickering in the gloom as Looffa's face came into focus. He was frowning, his words terse.

"Election day draws closer, Moda. Why is he still alive?"

"I haven't yet had opportunity," he lied, hands curling into fists where they rested on his knees.

Looffa grumbled in irritation. "The amendment will pass in the Commons by the end of the week, and then will go to the House of Lords for consideration for general election. That must not happen. I don't care how you do it, just kill him."

Moda opened his mouth to reply, but the screen went dark. Knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep, Moda curled up on the couch, knees tucked under his chin. He'd been prepared to hate the man he'd come to assassinate, but had instead fallen hopelessly in love.

He didn't know how long he sat in the dark before a muffled Thunk! made him whirl about in surprise. A snort of laughter escaped and his eyes danced.

Moda was by now well-accustomed to Nash's sleep-walking. This time the poor man had walked himself right into a wall. Awake, he stared with some confusion at the crooked painting hanging inches from his nose. The nanny's soft snort drew his attention and he turned.

"Hey, Moda," said Nash sleepily, rubbing at the back of his neck in embarrassment. "What're you doing awake?"

"Thinking. You run into things often?" His programming insisted that now was an excellent opportunity, but as he didn't have a set time or method, Moda was able to ignore the nagging by focusing on the effect Nash's sleepy befuddlement had on his body.

"Er, well." Nash gave the wall an offended stare. "No. Not that I'm aware of, anyway."

"Have you always been a sleepwalker?" Moda inquired curiously. He smirked in the darkness to see the renewed blush. Getting up, he walked towards his boss.

"Actually, yes," Nash admitted, wanting to hustle back to bed but somehow mesmerized by Moda's eyes, made large by the gloom.

Kneeling, Moda ran his hands over Nash's feet and legs, checking for bruises. "I should think that'd be dangerous, being in space and all," he said.

"Um, y-yes, I suppose it would -- what are you doing?" His skin was on fire as the vuelian's hands slipped up his thighs and sides. He wanted to step away but stood frozen, trembling. No one had touched him so delicately, so erotically, in years, and it was frying his brain.

Fingers flitted over his face, making Nash gasp and flinch away.

"Checking to make sure you're not hurt," whispered Moda, his breath misting across the open collar of Nash's shirt. "You are so beautiful, Mr. Prime Minister," he murmured, stepping forward again so that their bodies brushed against each other.

Nash made a strangled noise, nose full of Moda's shampoo, skin tingling, heart racing to keep blood pumping in time with his shuddering gasps.

Moda's voice was liquid sensuality. "Push me away, sir, or I fear I shall take advantage of you." His hands cupped the back of Nash's head. For a minute, he really thought he would be pushed away, but then Nash's hand found his hips and he kissed back.

Somehow amidst the heated kisses and wild groping, they stumbled into a bedroom. By the time they flopped onto the bed, both were naked.

There was a sense of urgency in Moda's touches and kisses. Although Nash tried to slow him down, the vuelian wasn't listening. He was too afraid Nash would change his mind.

The little nips stung Nash's skin, and the soft, wet licks which followed made him reel from the sensory overload. He quit trying to keep up and let his hands fall to clutch the blankets, head tilting to bare his throat for the kisses he loved best.

"Mn, I can't wait," panted Moda, lapping at the divot in Nash's collarbone. His hands pawed the broad chest beneath him, slipping easily along the pads of his fingers.

He leaped from the bed and Nash leaned up on his elbows, confused until Moda returned, biting off the cap to a small bottle. Smiling, Nash lay back again, spreading his legs in anticipation.

Again Moda surprised him. The flood of lubricant embraced him, the vuelian climbing back astride.

"Oh Gods," moaned Nash. His hands came forward to rest on muscled thighs, supporting the smaller man's weight. He thought to ask, 'was he sure?' but Moda gave him no opportunity to refuse until he stopped with a soft whimper.

It hurt! None of Moda's training had prepared him for this. He wanted -- needed -- filled, what could he do?

"Mn!"

He became conscious of Nash's fingers on his skin, and of his gentle voice saying, "Wait, wait." He didn't ask stupid or unnecessary questions, but kept talking. "Breathe. Take nice, slow breaths, and relax. That's it. Nice and easy."

As the calm, steady voice continued, Moda did feel the tightness ease. Bit by bit he slipped down until he rested complete with Nash inside, stretching his gut to uncomfortable fullness. It was a weird feeling, and Moda mewed a little, leaning forward to meet Nash's lips in a new kiss.

"Give it time, give it time," Nash murmured between nuzzles.

Moda nipped back, nibbling on Nash's lips, fingers exploring and pinching small, pert, pink nipples until they stood upright and he wrenched a moan from the calm man. The motion of Nash's body as he involuntarily arched beneath Moda's touch moved their bodies together in a new way. Moda ground down harder, a whine rising to his throat.

"Oh! More! More!" he cried. The discomfort was forgotten as Nash guided his lover to lift and slide back down. This touched something inside that sent sparks of pleasure shooting up Moda's spine. He didn't need Nash to guide him to seek that pleasure again, his muscles clenching and releasing in a quick, demanding rhythm in time with his delirious cries.

Nash held on tight, amazed at the strength in the vuelian's legs, the blush that spread across his chest, and the total unrestrained pleasure reflected in Moda's face. The golden eyes were closed, head thrown back as he panted and mewed, and his fingernails cut trails in Nash's skin. He'd never seen Iwain like this; Iwain ruled his body as he ruled his men: strict and methodical.

Nash remembered his first time, and that had been awesome, but he couldn't remember ever abandoning himself to sensation like Moda did.

His voice lifted with Moda's as they raced towards oblivion and finally stumbled over into bliss. He cradled the vuelian's head against his chest, smoothing tawny hair in its loose braid.

"Mmm!" purred Moda, nuzzling his lover in languorous contentment.

They lay in silence for several minutes while their heart rates settled and their breathing slowed.

"How did you know?" Nash asked, still petting Moda's hair mindlessly. He tilted his head to look down and make sure the man hadn't fallen asleep.

"Mmm?"

"That I was in the space marines. Moda?"

"Who doesn't know?" he replied sleepily, yawning wide enough to make his jaw pop. "Shh, 'm tryin' ta sleep."

Nash chuckled, a low rumble in his chest that started Moda purring again. Holding tightly to each other, they drifted into companionable slumber.

"Papa!"

"Papa!"

With a parent's intuition (of when his kids are up to no good), Nash shielded his face with both arms, just in time to avoid death by pillow. His boys' giggling made him smiles as he burrowed further under the covers and remaining pillows for protection.

"Oooh! No fair!" whined Ram.

Sudden weight landed on his back, and then Moda's voice rang out, "Get 'im, boys!"

With delighted giggles, Ram and Sia whaled away with their pillows while Moda held their father down, getting in some tickles and gropes as well. Eventually, the boys gave up their pillows for the irresistible lure of their father's very ticklish, and very unprotected feet.

"Now, wait a minute!" Nash protested in between muffled laughter and squirms.

All too soon, and not soon enough, the boys tired of their game, jumping up to sit on their wiggling father and laughing in delight for the success of their mission. He was very definitely awake now.

They gave Moda air kisses and he smiled back at them with affection. Sure, they were a handful, but being with them made the days always interesting. He let them squirm around, poking their father and each other for another minute or two before shooing them out.

Leaning down, he whispered into Nash's ear, "I've got a surprise for you tonight."

"Is that so?" Nash replied, sitting up and twisting to knock his lover over. He pinned the vuelian down, nipping at the skin revealed by twisted cloth. "Think I'll take my surprise right now."

"The kids ...!" gasped Moda.

Nash already had his lover's pants off. He grinned up at Moda from between the man's legs. "Kayte will keep them busy. If you can keep your mouth shut, they'll never know."

"Uhn, mmm, m'kay."

Whispered words, stolen gropes, and tumbles in the dark couldn't beat the spill of Moda's hair in the sunshine. Nash drank it all in, enjoying the luxury of a late morning. With the news that his amendment had passed in the House of Lords, he felt comfortable in taking a few days to himself.

When they arrived in the dining room, sticky faces and an argument greeted them:

"Nuh-uh," said Sia.

"Uh-huh," said Ram.

Sia stuck his tongue out. "Nuh-uh!"

Moda and Nash looked at each other and smiled before taking their seats and biting into their sticky buns.

The housekeeper shook her head at them as she filled their coffee cups. She was less annoyed than amused. Seeing Nash so relaxed was beautiful. It'd been years since he'd worn a similar, smug, contented look to the table. And for Moda? He blushed when she caught his eye, trying to make his recently mussed hair lie flat again, but he wasn't ashamed, which, Kayte thought, showed remarkably good sense.

"I can't remember the last time you had a day off, sir," she commented. "What will you do today?"

"Well," he answered slowly, taking his time to chew a mouthful of roll, drink a swallow of coffee, and stretch out the suspense. "I thought we'd go down to the docks and spend the day hunting sea monsters."

Moda smiled indulgently while the boys cheered and started bragging about how big a fish they would each catch. Within a few minutes they'd reached gargantuan proportions. Kayte rolled her eyes and Nash laughed, sipping his coffee demurely.

They were well and truly exhausted by the time they got home, nursing a few minor scrapes, bruises, and sunburns. Moda had grilled their catch on the beach while Nash and the boys went swimming and he placed the few left-overs into the refrigeration unit with a satisfied thump on the door.

The door to Nash's study was ajar when Moda walked down the hall. Light and the Prime Minister's voice (because it was definitely the business-like tone Nash used to speak in his official capacity) spilled out into the hallway. Moda bit his lip and peered inside, hoping they hadn't lost the cheerful, relaxed mood.

"I don't care what time it is!" Nash shouted in a calm, steady voice. "You get his ass up and you send me those files!"

"Y-Yes, sir!" said the person on the other end. The computer display winked to a different screen, what sounded like a newscast, and Nash stood, leaning against his hands on the desk, cursing.

"Sir?" Moda began cautiously. He soon realized what else sat on that desk as Nash spun around, a small laser-pistol targeting Moda's chest.

He froze, one hand glued to the doorknob.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you."

Moda's mind went blank, allowing his heart to speak: "I love you." He immediately flushed, body trembling, but he didn't take back the words.

"You're programmed for that! Assassin."

Tears sprang to Moda's eyes, but he swallowed them and the sudden, painful lump in his throat. "Nash ...."

"You think I don't know what's going on here?" he screamed without ever raising his voice. "I have my boys to protect!"

"So do I! Nash, please!"

"Don't address me so!" The gun wavered in hands that trembled, and the anguish on his faces caused Moda's heart to crack further.

"My primary mission was to kill you," he confessed softly, speaking quickly. "But secondary -- I have to look after Sia and --"

"Don't speak their names!" All this time, harboring a killer under his roof, allowing him to supervise his children, Nash's heart beat behind his eyes, fear swelling painfully in his chest. One wrong move, and the boys could be dead, or hurt, and it would be all Nash's fault. He'd gotten careless, swayed by the face of a man he'd thought of as a friend, even knowing he was a ruthless murderer.

"Don't you see?" cried Moda. "My programming is in conflict! Killing you would hurt the boys, would hurt you! I couldn't do it!"

Nash's voice turned cold again, mind freezing his heart into a shield against the warring emotions that wanted to tear him apart. "Until your master showed up and ordered you to. Take him away."

"What?" Moda jumped at the hand on his shoulder, hitting the floor as the guard reacted with lightning-fast reflexes. Tensions ran high, but Moda looked up at Nash, and saw only the military captain who had brought the man who bore Moda's face to justice after a year's captivity. The sweet, loving man who kissed sticky faces and let children beat him with pillows was completely gone.

"Don't damage him!" snapped Nash, setting the gun down before he dropped it. "I want Zeke to analyze him."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell him I need his report before the press conference tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." The guards saluted, grabbing Moda by his arms to pull him away.

He could have fought, Moda knew half a dozen different ways to kill a man while unarmed, but he didn't. "Nash!" he called. "Nash!"

The Prime Minister said nothing. He sat down heavily in his chair, hands flat on the desk to hide their shaking. It was happening again!

He'd been a young marine on his way home from a six-year tour of duty when the hijacking occurred. The military reported him dead, like everyone else on the cruiser, but the space pirates' captain, Iwain, had been captivated by Nash's face and his spirited struggles. Though he was a prisoner on the pirate ship, Iwain and Nash eventually became friends, and then lovers.

He was a brilliant man, convinced that Nash would eventually give up his ideals to stay with him, to become a pirate as well. He was already dead, what difference would it make?

But Nash couldn't let go of his morals. He loved Iwain, but he couldn't stomach the brutality of a pirate's life. He earned their trust, and then he betrayed them. He'd killed Iwain himself, to spare him the drawn-out death that was no doubt in store for him back in civilization. It was the only mercy he knew the pirate would understand, but he'd thought his heart would never recover.

Now his position was reversed. Moda had earned his trust, insinuated himself so thoroughly into Nash's life that he didn't want to think of what that life would be like without him.

The press was even now tearing him apart for being a hypocrite, for owning a construct while fighting so hard to end the industry. All his hard work towards the passage of that amendment was going up in flames. If he didn't do something quick, his political career, as well as the amendment, would be destroyed.

If he could just trace Moda back to Znaida! If he could do that before the press conference, reply to the accusations with solid facts about the set-up, then it would all be over. He could still turn this around. Thank the gods he'd checked his messages before heading to bed!

Nash sat down in front of his computer and focused his mind on his work. His com beeped in the early hours of the morning, startling him out of a light doze, hunched over the keyboard.

"Yes?" he said, sitting up abruptly and slapping at the key to accept the call.

"Sir, it's Zeke." The technician's voice sounded tired.

Nash flipped on the visual. The chief scientist on his staff, Doctor Zeke Nonom, was the most intelligent person Nash knew. He'd left Znaida to come work for Nash because he'd been pulled into the young man's vision.

His previous job had involved defective clones. These were the constructs who behaved contrary to their programming. He believed that the clones weren't defective at all, that they were merely exhibiting free will. Though he'd never been able to prove it, he still believed that cloning was wrong.

Nash listened to him, but his eyes remained fastened on the body strapped to the table behind the doctor. Moda's eyes were open, but his face turned away from the camera. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he wept, arms and legs straining against his bonds and the equipment. The microphone didn't pick up what he said, however.

"Sir? Nash!" Zeke frowned as he got his boss's attention. "I think you should come down here."

He nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Zeke knew that the Prime Minister understood what he said; he only hoped he could somehow use the implications of what he hadn't said. Zeke was one of Nash's strongest supporters. He didn't care about joining the alliance, but he wanted the ban against cloning to pass.

He turned back to Moda when the screen clicked off and gestured to his assistants. They began cleaning up, preparing for the Prime Minister's arrival.

Moda sat on the very edge of his seat, arms hugging his body as he hunched over his knees, unable to relax in the too-clean, white room. He could escape, his mind had already plotted a handful of ways to disable the doctor and his staff with the various implements in the room, but he didn't.

The doctor, Zeke, had said Nash was coming, so Moda waited. He wanted to see the man again, more than anything, and he sat frozen in place as the door whisked open.

The man who entered wore a mask just like his suit, the cold, expressionless man portrayed in the media as the ruthless Prime Minister, but his eyes burned Moda. He couldn't move, biting the corner of his lip as Nash approached.

"Please don't kill me."

Moda didn't even realize that he'd spoken until he saw Nash flinch. The mask crumbled, but Moda didn't see, having turned his head, to gaze down and off to the side. He didn't have a right to ask such a thing. He was a clone, a construct, and therefore not even considered 'alive.' He had no rights under the law.

"Moda."

He flinched, hunching over and away from the strained, quiet voice. Tears streaked Moda's face and he trembled, wanting but unable to look. Constructs weren't supposed to be able to cry, weren't supposed to feel anything they weren't programmed for. He was defective and would be destroyed. That was a construct's fate.

"Moda." Nash sat beside the tense body on the examination table. Ignoring Zeke watching them from across the lab, Nash wrapped his arms around Moda's broad shoulders and pulled him against his chest. "Moda. I'm sorry, love. Shh, come here."

Paper crinkled as their positions shifted. Moda clung to his former lover, fingers fisting in the expensive suit. He couldn't speak for the sobs that made him gasp brokenly for each breath.

The smell of antiseptic soap covered Moda's unique scent and tickled Nash's nose. He focused on that rather than give in to the tears behind his eyes. "It's okay now, Moda. Shh, no one's going to hurt you anymore, I promise."

"But ... But, I'm a construct!"

He didn't push him away, but Nash did brush Moda's hair away from his face, wiping at the tears. "No," he corrected him gently. "You're a clone, Moda, but you're not a construct."

Moda frowned. A clone was a construct, that's what they were for. "I don't understand," he said, still not releasing his hold.

Nash sighed and glanced at Zeke, but the doctor had his back to them, pointedly ignoring the little drama. Fine, then. Nash could do this alone.

"Doctor Nonom is an expert in cloning, Moda," he attempted to explain. "He tested you in every which way he knew, and he tells me that you have the identifiers in your DNA that show you were grown in a test tube, in a lab not much different from this one, grown with the genes from a particular Iwain Roswin. You were born only a few months ago, but, Moda, we believe that you are alive."

"Huh?" Moda sat up enough to stare in confusion at Nash's serious face.

He pulled a small square of cloth out of his pocket and dabbed at the wide, red-rimmed eyes. "You've chosen for yourself," he said kindly. "You are just as human as Zeke. Or me. Well, Vuelian, anyway, since that's where your DNA comes from. Moda." He cupped the damp cheeks with his palms. "What makes you a defective clone makes you human. You have free will. I love you --"

Moda gasped.

Nash smiled at the shock and delight. "I want to use you to help pass my amendment. It'll ban cloning. Forever. It'll also give all the clones out there the right to choose their own lives. Just like you."

"But, I ... my programming?"

"It won't be easy. I'm not promising that, but Zeke says that the programming is nothing more than a complex series of conditioning. It's break-able, if you want to."

"I do!" He threw his arms around the man, crying again, his heart hurting so badly he could barely breathe, but the tears in his eyes were from joy. "I want to stay with you! Whatever it takes! I don't care! Just let me stay! Please, please let me stay!"

Grabbing Moda by the shoulders, Nash pushed him back so they could look each other in the face. "This is going to be very tough, Moda. You must understand this."

The tawny head bobbed in quick nods. "Yes! Yes!"

"Moda." He cupped the cheeks again, staring into his eyes. "I'm going to use you, do you understand? You're an example of all that is wrong about the cloning industry. There's going to be cameras and press, and they'll tear you apart. We may get the amendment passed, but that's only the beginning of this war -- and it is a war, Moda." His voice strained, revealing the inner core of steel. "Make no mistake about that. This is a war, a war for the rights of people like yourself, but you're the only one who can do this. You can speak for all the other clones. Do you want to do this, Moda?

"You don't have to. I have enough to prove my case without you. You can stay out of the spotlight, if you wish to. I'm giving you the choice. Do you understand choice, Moda? You have to decide, and I'll respect your decision."

"I'm property," Moda whispered, tears drying in the face of such a complex array of thoughts and ideas. He shook his head slightly. "I don't ... I ...." He didn't have the right to decide anything outside his programming.

"Right now you are," Nash agreed. His lips tightened angrily. "Znaida made you. The DNA code is unique, but you tried to kill me."

"I --" Startled, Moda tried to recoil. He hadn't!

"Shh, that was your function, was it not?"

Moda licked dry lips uncertainly. "Yes."

"See?" Nash smiled, letting a hand brush at the thick hair, pushing the strands back out of Moda's face. "Because of that, you are now under arrest. Znaida can't touch you anymore. Oh, they can try," he added, frowning again, eyes looking beyond Moda at something he couldn't see.

Then he shrugged. "I'll protect you," he promised, leaning in to press a quick, soft kiss to the parted lips. "I need you, Moda. I love you."

Moda's heart leaped, but he blinked back his tears. "My ... My programming can be broken?"

"Yes. It'll be difficult, but you can, if you want to."

"And I'm ... human?"

"Yes."

Moda stared into Nash's eyes. Complex ideas roiled in his head, and his dreams were so close that he wanted to reach out and grab them, but was afraid they'd turn into nothing.

"Yes," he whispered. "I'll do anything you want me to." A bit of a blush darkened his cheeks. "Use me any way you need, Mister Prime Minister." He didn't entirely understand, that would take time, but he knew that this was important to Nash. Making this man happy was all Moda needed.

The smile was answer enough and Moda laughed, grinning as he threw his arms around Nash. In seconds he was wrapped inside the other man's embrace. This was where Moda belonged. The back of his mind whispered that the doctor's tools were close enough to still fulfill his duty, but if Nash was right, then Moda could choose.

He'd chosen to ignore his programming before. He could do it again, as many times as necessary to stay like this, in Nash's arms. "I love you," he whispered.

Looking up, Nash met Zeke's eyes across the room. The doctor smiled softly in approval. They knew this would be the hardest fight of Nash's career, but they both believed it was worth it. Together they prepared Moda for the morning's press conference and stood waiting.

Holding tightly to Moda's hand, Nash smiled down at him. The vuelian smiled back, lifting his chin proudly, stubbornly. Together, they stepped forward and into their new life.